


The Probably Never Getting Married Affair

by Attic_Nights



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Weddings, boys manipulating boys, i don't think the boys know how weddings are supposed to work, there is pretty much zero plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attic_Nights/pseuds/Attic_Nights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two miserable spies meeting at a wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Probably Never Getting Married Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SerpentineJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/gifts).



> A very silly one-shot prompted by the tender Serp on tumblr, as part of [this prompt meme.](http://attic-nights.tumblr.com/post/132458426178/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-write-a-short) Can be read as either TV or Movie, although perhaps this Illya is a little gayer than movie!Illya.
> 
> Oh, and I used English English, since Illya was Sorbonne-educated (and because I'm lazy).

Illya’s gun was a comforting weight as he trod carefully down the plush red carpets of the chapel, his body swirling like smoke around the cumbersome masses of starched hair and collars. He kept moving, aware in a distant, sad sort of way that he’d never get the chance to marry someone in a place like this, and not just because he was a good little atheist.

The gentle chatter faded away as he slipped to the front and into an alcove. As he did so, he disturbed two children aged no more than five. He snarled at them and they scattered with a giggle, but his heart dropped. He hoped they wouldn’t be the ones to find the corpse.

To his surprise, the alcove wasn’t empty. His hand froze half way to his holster, and he recovered enough to produce a handkerchief instead of a gun. The other man sat curled in a ball, a few loose strands of his brylcreemed hair falling over manicured hands and a smooth forehead. When the man did not look up, Illya stepped backwards, ready to slip away to another hidey-hole.

“Don’t.”

Illya paused, poised. The voice was rich, smooth, despite being so obviously American. He cocked his head and tightened his hand around his handkerchief, before shoving it away in his trousers. His hands weren’t red, but they should have been.

“You are the...” he paused, thinking of the word. “Just-a-friend?”

The brunet laughed miserably into his hands. “I’m the groom.”

Illya’s heart sunk at the sight of the nervous groom. With every heave of his body, the brunet seemed to fill the room, larger and larger until Illya couldn’t breathe without thinking about it. Couldn’t stop thinking about how this man would wait for his bride-to-be, the love of his life. Perhaps he was already waiting, and he thought he had been left at the altar.

“Is she not good looking, your bride?”

The American scoffed. “No, it’s not that.”

Illya thought back to sweet smile on Francesca Kasun, and figured she’d been good looking, probably. Her face, from what he could remember, had been symmetrical, her soft chest heaving, and her blood blooming under her rosy cheeks. Of course, he more recalled the blood that splattered her rosy cheeks and white dress. No, she wasn’t quite as nice looking with a hole in her temple – but it was better a hole there than an open soviet mouth.

He hoped the American wouldn’t find the corpse either. If only he could have moved it without being seen...

“Waverly’s going to eat my balls for breakfast,” the brunet grumbled.

Illya thought it pertinent not to ask further. A shadow passed close to the entrance and he realised he stuck out, standing blankly over a pathetic American. He sat down next to the man quickly, who leaned into him almost immediately. English left him for a moment, finding himself with a warm, heavy face in his crotch. Hating the part of him that leapt to attention at their positioning, he coughed.

“Uh-Um,” he said, and patted the head awkwardly, the brown strands long enough that they twined around his fingers. “There. There.”

“Thank you,” replied the American briskly.

The American sat up and, for the first time, Illya saw his face. Long dark lashes framed doe-like eyes, his nose running straight past two high cheekbones and down towards plush cupid-bow lips. Illya stopped breathing, feeling electricity sparking between them. Suddenly he felt selfishly glad that he’d killed the man’s fiancé. For he had the look of someone who knew they were beautiful, and the smile of someone who knew they were dangerous. It was then that Illya noticed confident hands pointing a barrel at his face.

 _His_ gun. He scrabbled under his jacket for his holster. Empty. Resigned, he raised his hands in surrender.

“Napoleon Solo. And you are?”

“Illya Kuryakin.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have an invitation, since you know neither groom nor bride.”

Illya shrugged. “The food looked interesting.”

A smile danced on Napoleon’s lips. Brown eyes holding blue, the brunet sniffed the barrel. “Recently fired. Who’ve you shot?”

“Your fiancé.”

“Oh,” said the American.

“Sorry.” Illya shuffled awkwardly.

“No.” The gun wavered, and suddenly the man was laughing. “That’s... _good.”_

Illya frowned. “I saved you the trouble?”

At least this beautiful American would not hang for his planned crimes. The beautiful American who still hasn’t stopped laughing. The gun wavered and Illya twitched to grab it, but Napoleon moved too.

“Blackmail,” he wheezed. “Can’t even complete my first mission.”

Not a civilian, then. “Don’t feel so bad. Americans can never complete anything.”

“Says the Russian who can’t even leave the crime scene.”

“I underestimated the amount of people.”

“Yeah. I underestimated that too. And, not all innocents.” Napoleon shoved Illya’s gun under his cummerbund and stood. He offered a hand to the surrendered Illya, who took it after a moment. It rested warm and dry in his own, and perhaps he held on for a second too long.

"Obviously."

Napoleon’s eyes flicked down to their joined hands, his eyebrows quirking curiously. Instead of tearing away, he squeezed slightly. “KGB?”

Illya twitched out a smile, which Napoleon reflected with one brighter than the sun.

“CIA?” he retorted, before tilting his head towards the main chapel. “Shall we?”

Napoleon tugged him forward into the open. Everyone went quiet, and the organ started to play. Illya’s heart sped up at the connotations.

“Gonna make me an honest man, Mr. Kuryakin?” whispered the American.

“I’m a spy, not a miracle worker,” he murmured back.

Smiling, Napoleon addressed the crowd. “Best man forgot the rings.” He bumped Illya’s shoulder. Illya bumped right back. “We’ll uh, be right back.”

Together they raced up the aisle.


End file.
